


Clay

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-15 08:22:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4599699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gríma and Alfrid like each other and hate Thranduil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clay

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Alfrid marvels at Gríma's smooth forehead , whilst Gríma has always longed for a single eyebrow as beautiful as Alfrid's They are both, of course, ridiculously jealous of Thranduil and his stupid perfect eyebrows.” prompt on [the Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/9471.html?thread=20667135#t20667135). Obviously the ages don’t work for this, so just pretend they do~
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The bed’s nicer than the last time he was here: all the hard work of weaseling up through the ranks finally paying off. Maybe this time, he’ll stay. Laketown’s a frigid, bitter little city, but those are things Gríma understands. 

And Alfrid might be the only person alive who’s ever understood him at all. Alfrid stumbles off the bed with nothing on, Gríma’s dried release still stuck between his thighs—no sense washing when the Master stinks himself too harsh to catch any whiffs other things. Alfrid often goes too long without a bath, but Gríma _likes_ him dirty and doesn’t complain, just lounges back in the decent-sized bed and watches him limp across the cold wooden floor. 

All of Alfrid’s clothes are ill-fitting, tattered and dirty in places, but he slumps anyway. He tugs on one black piece after another, and Gríma prompts up on one elbow. He stares at the taut, white cheeks of Alfrid’s ass as Alfrid hops into his trousers, fiddling with the ties to hold them up. He’s all sickly-pale, silk-smooth skin with a dark mole here and there and a few scratches from rough fucking. His greasy hair tangles irreparably as he yanks his tunic over his shoulders, and Gríma calls idly, “Come back to bed.”

“Have to help the Master,” Alfrid grunts: not even a full sentence. Then he catches his reflection in the mirror over his drawers, straightens up and tries to finger-comb his hair into place, even though it’s ratty beyond hope. He looks well-fucked and well-used: _good_. Running a long tongue over his teeth, Alfrid settles on a displeased sneer and grumbles, “The Elf King’s got a visit. You know the Master’s helpless without me.”

“He’s helpless with you,” Gríma snorts. He understands the business of counseling fools all too well, but the Master of Laketown is particularly without use. In some ways, those are the best kind. Easiest to pull strings with. The Elf King’s a different story, and the mere mention of him makes Gríma scowl. Some things are fair as poison and should be kept away from Men. Under his breath, Gríma finds himself muttering, “And that so-called king and his damn eyebrows...”

Alfrid instantly looks over, coat half around his shoulders, and joins in the scowl. They share a silent moment of envious hatred, and then Alfrid wanders back over. His knees hit the bed and he falls to all fours, crawling over it and the blanket-covered lump of Gríma’s legs, to reach a peck to Gríma’s forehead. “You’re fine the way you are,” Alfrid says firmly, like Gríma’s looks will somehow be salvation for them both. Gríma snorts again but leaves it where it is. He’d rather have Alfrid, easy and slick and amusing, than some fancy, hermit drunkard, perfect face or no. Alfrid may not have long, golden locks, but his matted dark ones are nice and easy to drag him around by. Alfrid grins like he knows what Gríma’s thinking, and he bends in for a proper kiss, stale breath and wet tongue. 

When he pulls back, Gríma lifts a lazy hand to finger the length of Alfrid’s single, dark brow, and purr, “You’re not so bad yourself.” In truth, Gríma finds it sort of _handsome_ , in a way, unique and rugged. The one openly daring thing about Alfrid Lickspittle. If they had no need of money, Gríma would run his tongue along it and yank Alfrid back to bed for a proper face-fucking and another go over the side. 

But Alfrid has to leave. They share one more kiss, sloppy and a little too passionate; talking about people they hate always gets them going. By the time Alfrid gets off the bed again, he’s got a new bruise on his jaw. The Master won’t ask—he probably won’t even notice. He wastes a good lackey like Alfrid. 

Alfrid heads out the door, and Gríma falls back in bed, wondering if he can find some poor rich fool to siphon money of off so he can stay in this awful place forever.


End file.
